


Feels like Home

by Banashee



Series: 65 Random Prompts [7]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst and Humor, Awesome Phil Coulson, Baking, Clint Barton Feels, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Cuddling & Snuggling, Deaf Clint Barton, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Inappropriate Humor, M/M, Mutual Pining, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Phil Needs a Hug, Protective Clint Barton, Protective Phil Coulson, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Stress Baking, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:34:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23057803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Banashee/pseuds/Banashee
Summary: Clint likes to bake, and he's slowly starting to trust people around him. Mainly he trusts Phil, and of course he realizes that he's falling in love with him. Which doesn't mean he'll say anything about it. Clint keeps it to himself for years, even as the two men grow closer and closer on a personal level.I started this with the best intentions of writing something short and sweet - instead I created this 10k+ slow burn. Oh well.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Series: 65 Random Prompts [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1606429
Comments: 33
Kudos: 201
Collections: Excellent Clint Barton centric fiction





	Feels like Home

**Author's Note:**

> Another prompt list thingy with my dear friend @banana_ink.  
> Full prompt list can be found here:  
> https://banashee.tumblr.com/post/190342596571/65-random-writing-prompts
> 
> I started this with the best intentions of writing something short and sweet - instead I created this 10k+ slow burn. Oh well.
> 
> Trigger warnings:  
> \- non-graphic blood and injury  
> \- PTSD  
> \- implied past attacks  
> \- implied past non-con (NOT in between the ship)  
> \- Depression and Anxiety  
> \- Off-screen character death but nothing graphic

**Feels like home  
**

"What are you doing?" 

Phil stops in his tracks as he's entering the living room that’s connected to an open kitchen. Because where this morning, everything had been tidy and clean, it’s now covered in a thick layer of flour. There are egg shells strewn about, several bags of something and there are bowls stacked in the sink, handles of various utensils sticking out. Three more bowls rest on the counter, covered with tea towels. 

In the middle of it all, Clint stands with his sleeves rolled up, gorgeous arms on full display and scowling at a pile of dough that he’s working harder than is probably necessary. It’s not like Phil could tell, because he’s pretty much useless in the kitchen when it involves anything that’s more complicated than cooking pasta with premade sauce or chucking raw potatoes with salt and pepper into the oven. 

Barton doesn’t even turn around, and grumbles, "Baking." as he proceeds to turn the pile of dough over, pours more flour onto it and viciously hits it with the palms of his hands.

“I can see that.” Phil replies patiently, “What are you baking and most importantly,  _ why  _ are you baking? A blown up safe house isn’t accounted for in the budget for this mission.”

“No offence, but fuck you, Sir.” 

Clint turns briefly to glare, then he goes back to beating the crap out of the dough under his hands. It doesn’t look like he’s interested in having this conversation. Or any conversation at all, that is. Phil definitely catches on to that and moves to the opposite counter, which isn’t nearly as covered in flour as the rest of the space. 

The only thing not dusted in baking ingredients in this kitchen seems to be the coffee machine but that’s not surprising, given that it’s Clint who created this tornado. He lives off of the stuff, and so does Phil. Which means there’s always a fresh pot ready or brewing. Phil pours himself a cup, leans back onto the counter and inhales the heavenly scent of coffee before taking a long swig. 

After a few moments of silence, Clint starts talking, though.

“I’m making bread because we’re stuck here for at least a little while and if I don’t keep busy with anything useful I’ll go insane. We did the debriefing, my report is finished since last night and you can only clean your weapons so many times before it starts getting ridiculous. So, baking it is.”

He sounds resigned, frustrated.

To most people, a bit of unexpected off-time due to a snow storm would feel like a vacation, but Phil is actually one of the very few people who understands. 

Both him and Agent Barton are workaholics and infamous for hogging every available space on the holiday cover lists. As for Coulson himself, the jokes within SHIELD about him actually being an alien life form that doesn’t require sleep or down time are almost as old as his career there, even though people usually quickly shut up as soon as they notice him nearby. 

Truth is, Phil doesn’t really have anything to come home to. 

An empty, dark apartment with nicer furniture than he’ll ever need because he’s barely there and a fridge full of mold because it’s been too long since he actually had time to do anything about it. He doesn’t even have a house plant, because they simply die when he’s gone and don’t get watered. So don’t even ask him about having any pets - how is he supposed to care for a living creature that depends on him when he can’t even keep a fucking cactus alive?

Relationship? Not so much. His last one ended years ago and ugly at that. It’s probably what Phil gets for dating a civilian and work following him home one night. He understands why his partner bolted in panic and ended it later via phone call because he’d been terrified to come back to the apartment after the break in and the nightly attack. Phil didn’t blame him one bit, and told him as much. 

So this was when he learned the hard way that a relationship with anyone outside his line of work most likely would be impossible in the long run. 

Phil didn’t try after, a one-night-stand or two aside. It’s easier than getting his heart broken again and again, easier than losing a loved one due to his job that he just can’t give up.

“This is probably gonna be too much for just two people.” Clint’s voice rises him back out of his thoughts, and Phil blinks before looking over to where the younger agent is standing, putting the first loaf of bread into the oven and starting to knead another, darker looking batch of dough.

“Hope you like bread, Coulson. I’ll give it to anyone who doesn’t run away fast enough. Might just put the leftovers into the break room at headquarters. Nothing stays there for long.”

“I like bread.” Phil answers, because that’s certainly true. Especially when it’s homemade, which he really doesn’t get often. Then, another thought crosses his mind.

“The baked goods that keep turning up in the break room. Those are coming from you?” He asks, because chances are, whenever you enter it something sits there, no note or anything, and people happily go to town on whatever it is that day. 

Phil especially loves the days when there are chocolate chip cookies, because they’re always the perfect mixture of crisp on the edges and gooey in the middle and they usually disappear faster than you can blink once people know they’re there. There are other types of cookies, too. Sometimes it's pastry, perfectly flaky and filled with something delicious. Cake, breadsticks, all sorts of snacks. They always seem to appear out of thin air, and everybody is interested to see what is there in the mornings, because most of the time, the baking must take place in the middle of the night because you can almost never see anyone delivering it during the day, unless it’s somebody's birthday and they bring cake that they dump there for their co-workers. 

Even Director Fury takes a detour in the mornings to see what kind of treat appeared there some time at night and snatches a piece or two for himself. 

Clint hums in response to the question. 

“Not everything, but most of it is mine.” He shrugs, and looks back at Phil for a moment,

“You know I don’t sleep too well. It’s one way to stay busy, besides training. And people seem to appreciate it, so…” he shrugs again, a little bit self conscious and turns back to working on his dough, although a lot less violent than before. 

“It’s good. Really good actually. I had no idea you baked, or I wouldn’t have joked earlier.” Phil refills his cup of coffee, and, without thinking, fills up Clint’s mug that’s sitting on the counter in a semi-safe distance of getting knocked over or flour sprinkled into it and nudges it a little closer to him.

“Thanks.” He means both the coffee and the statement, and smiles at Phil. It’s one of his small, honest ones, not the over enthusiastic, fake kind of smile that he plasters on around people in an attempt to make them like him while he's actually hiding in plain sight. Then, surprisingly, he turns around to really face Phil and looks like he’s chewing on his words for a moment. The older man waits patiently, knowing that it’s usually not a good idea to push him. 

“I used to work in the cooking tents back in the circus. Worked in kitchens and bakeries after, too. You know, after the army kicked me out.”

Phil nods, and keeps quiet. He knows Clint’s file and his personal history, starting with his messed up early life all through the sketchy circus and after. Phil knows that he illegally enlisted in the army while being too young but he had nowhere else to go. He knows that Clint spent time on the streets and working odd jobs, both legal and illegal, but Phil never knew that many details because not everything left data for SHIELD to go after, and Clint was and still is tight lipped about his history. He doesn’t share unless forced, and that never ends well. 

But now he’s providing personal information to Phil, out of his own free will and Phil knows and appreciates it for the rare sign of trust that it is. Even after two years of almost always exclusively working together, the younger agent keeps a lot to himself. Sometimes though, something small and personal might slip through his iron control. But never this much, and certainly not in broad daylight in a casual conversation. 

So Phil nods silently, smiling back and waiting for Clint to finish his thought.

“Not having a fixed address always fucked that up, though. Stuff happened, you know the rest.” He rubs one hand over his face and leaves a track of flour all over his cheek and forehead. Some of it clings to his hair and eyebrow. He looks withdrawn and tired, now that Phil actually looks closer. 

“Sorry, I haven't slept in a while. Didn't mean to talk your ear off, Boss.” Clint adds, and quickly turns around facing the counter to go back to kneading his current batch of dough. He doesn’t say anything after that, concentrating on his work and carefully avoiding any further eye contact.

“That’s okay, I don’t mind. You can talk to me anytime. " Phil replies, and he doesn't crack a single joke about Clint's habit to repeatedly break the silence over comms. Phil is serious with this, and he calmly keeps drinking his coffee while they share the room in comfortable silence. Then, when he’s done and is about to leave the kitchen again, he quietly adds on to his reply from several minutes ago.

“Thank you for trusting me with this.”

He didn't get an answer before and he doesn't expect one now. But he does notice that the tension that Clint holds in his shoulders relaxes significantly.

When they make it back to New York three days later, they do so with bags full of several different kinds of bread, two kinds of cookies half a chocolate cake carefully wrapped up in tin foil, leaving it in the break room. But when Phil moves to place the contents of another two packets into a plastic container, Clint stops him and says,

“That’s yours, Sir.”

And before Phil has the time to thank him, Clint has left the room, leaving him with mouthwatering delicious sourdough bread, cheesy garlic bread, salted caramel and chocolate chip cookies and a whole new train of thoughts.

*+~

Living on base comes with a list of pros, and an equally long list of cons. 

One of the pros being that everything is close at all times and Clint saves a lot of time which he’d otherwise spend with commutes and other tedious crap. The probably biggest con, however, is that there’s no fucking privacy. 

Yes, he has a small apartment with a separate bed- and bathroom for himself but that’s really all there is to it. The walls are paper thin, and even with his shitty hearing on the left he knows every single detail from when his next door neighbour on the right has a nightly visitor. Clint knows just exactly how long they’re going at it and what stupid names they call each other.

Too much information, especially when he has to look both “Sexy Beast” and “Hot Mama” in the eyes over a conference room table in a meeting about upcoming missions the very next day. Which gets increasingly hard when he has to hold himself back from expressing this condolences to “Hot Mama” for the 10 minutes of disappointment she’s enduring on a regular basis. Loud 10 minutes, filled with fake moaning but still. It's physically painful to keep his mouth shut and stay focused these days. 

Clint is pretty sure that spending this amount of time with literally anything else would be time spent well in this case, from what he can tell. Which is a lot. More than he ever wanted to.

When he started working for SHIELD he’d never have thought that this particular problem would be part of his daily life on base, and yet here he is, knowing entirely too much about his co-workers.

More importantly, the thin walls also mean that he’s got no privacy of his own. An apartment on base could be described as a screen to shield someone from view, provided with a door that locks and a security system. That one doesn’t make him feel too safe, though. Anyone who wanted to could enter, given time and a little bit of skill. Clint tested that theory pretty early on, breaking into his own quarters in the matter of a few minutes. So he doesn’t fool himself about privacy and safety. It’s still better than anything he’s ever had before in his entire life.

Besides, he always avoided getting too comfortable where he is, even to this day. Just in case he needs to run again. No roots attached, no commitments. Moving out of basic SHIELD quarters would be one hell of a lot easier than leaving behind a life in a space of his own. 

But he likes his job, and Clint started to think, only since recently but still, that he actually might have a real place within this organization. 

Lack of privacy for him is not so much a problem when it comes to hook ups - Clint is not with anyone and the desire to go out and find someone to fuck with doesn't surface that often. 

If he does, he’s always, always spending the night at their place or a motel, though. The ladies or gents usually don’t mind that and there are never any last names or phone numbers exchanged. It works, for the most part.

Sometimes, depending on his current state of mind, these encounters leave Clint wanting to scrub his skin off with bleach. 

It’s not his dates fault, just his brain going places. But there are nights, when he waits for them to fall asleep, happy and satisfied and a bit warmer than before, while he keeps himself still, hoping they won’t notice anything odd.

Clint is well aware that he is just lonely, not even a “probably” about it. But he also knows that going out for random hook ups doesn’t help. 

Sometimes, he enjoys those nights, for a while. But more often than not, being close to strangers that way sends his mind spinning and his skin crawling, to the point where even the feeling of someone's arms wrapped around him in their sleep doesn’t ease the loneliness and craving for physical contact that for once, is non-violent. 

At that point, the whole thing turned pointless, and he leaves to return back home, to wash off the smell of aftershave, perfume, smoke and sex and shake apart on the tile floor while the shower runs, covering up whatever little sounds escape him behind hands clamped tightly over his mouth. 

Running water really is a godsent - the sound drowns out most smaller things going on, and insomnia is common enough among SHIELD agents that no one bats an eye when they hear a shower running at three or four in the morning. Logically, Clint also knows that most of them would have an understanding about PTSD and its various shitty friends as well, but he doesn’t feel like sharing, doesn’t feel like letting anyone know anything more about him than the files already give away. And those are a lot more detailed than he’s comfortable with. 

SHIELD has it’s ways to find data and turn it into valuable information. It also has a psych department with shrinks that poke and needle all the right spots in new recruits to get the personal information that they’re looking for. 

Clint has left their offices telling them to go and get fucked on more than one occasion. “Defense mechanism” and “deflecting” they say. Also “trust issues” and “unprocessed trauma” but it’s not like he didn’t suspect that before, even when he doesn't know the correct terms because he's basically trailer trash. 

It makes him nauseous just thinking about how much they find out, how much of his personal crap is written down in files, ready to be accessed by anyone with a high enough clearance or skill and determination to get their hands on that sort of information.

Meetings with shrinks always leave him jumpy and on the edge. Practically, he knows this sort of thing is supposed to help, however, he doesn’t trust a single one of the doctors assigned to him. How things are supposed to get better that way, he doesn’t know, but he’s good enough at faking it to make it through.

He’s used to faking whatever he needs to fake to get forward. He can always hide and fall apart about it later, once the job is done and he’s back some place semi-safe and semi-private.

Which leads him back to the apartment issue. He’s getting sick of it. After two and a half years of working for SHIELD, he can afford to move out of base and get a place of his own, especially now that he finally might be comfortable enough to do so. It’ll take more planning, responsibility, adulting and most of all  _ commitment _ but he’s found that this is a price he’s more than willing to pay for a little piece of freedom and privacy. 

It’s also overwhelming, and he doesn’t really know how to go about it. Well, technically he knows he’ll have to talk to Coulson about the paper work and get it going, which he knows, realistically won’t be any trouble at all, because Coulson is  _ good _ . He’ll help him with the paperwork and figuring out where to go and what to do. he trusts him, too, which is rare enough. 

But Clint has caught himself on more than one occasion, talking to Phil about things more personal than the job. Most notably just the other day while they'd been stuck in a safe house due to the weather and Clint had one of his stress baking binges, in the middle of the day and Coulson walking in on him - not surprising, given that the wooden cabin consisted of only three rooms, counting in the bathroom. But Clint had shared more personal information with him than he has with most people before. Ever, if he counts the occasions where he'd shared those things willingly. 

It scares him, if he's being honest. Randomly sharing things with someone might end badly for him one day - there is a reason he usually keeps all this shit to himself damn it. But Coulson,  _ Phil _ , is different, somehow. He's patient and kind where others are not and he's a capable badass. Clint likes him, and most of all, he not only respects him - he trusts him like he never thought he'd trust somebody. 

He realizes that it might be a little sad that his only true friend is his supervisor. You can count someone you spend most of your time with as a friend right? Even Christmas and Thanksgiving, thanks to the fact that both Clint and Phil always volunteer to work these days. 

They call each other by their first names, sometimes, when they're not on comms. Also the fact that they've been in tight spots together before and occasionally holding each others guts in before medical help arrives to put them back where they belong. They trust each other with their lives (part of the job, but still) and all of this should be enough to call it a friendship, right? 

Clint finds himself just a tad more pathetic for thinking this but whatever. It's not like anyone could read his mind while he lies face first on the floor at two in the morning while the couple next door is busy with their very short amusement once again. It makes him want to rip his hair out, just a tiny little bit. 

Ok so fuck this. First thing in the morning he'll seek out Coulson and tackle the paperwork thing for his off base apartment. 

Clint groans and turns to lie down on his good ear, hoping it'll drown out the obnoxious sounds that are coming from the room over. 

It helps, but only a little bit. On the bright side, given the last 8 months of experience, it should be over very soon. 

When the moaning stops a little later than usual, Clint can make out somebody giving a round of sarcastic applause another apartment over, and snorts a laugh into the darkness of his own room. 

But honestly. Fuck this. 

He makes himself get up from the floor and crawl into bed. Clint is tired, but not the kind of tired where sleep would be any help. It doesn't stop him from trying though, and some time, way too close to the ringing of his goddamn alarm clock, he drifts off into restless sleep just to be startled awake again way too soon. 

Another glorious day. 

*~+

When Phil enters his office, the scent of fresh coffee wafts into his nostrils, and he's greeted by his asset, seated on the couch with a big coffee mug in one hand. It reads "Let's keep the dumbfuckery to a minimum, shall we?!" in bold rainbow letters, his own idea of a joke because he gifted the dang thing to Coulson last Christmas.

The other mug, another gift, from the previous years Christmas, is a horrible fake knock off Captain America mug, obnoxiously large but it holds sooo much liquid and it's Cap so naturally Phil loves this monstrosity. Especially since it's steaming in the middle of his desk, being partly responsible for the heavenly coffee scent filling the room. 

"Good morning, Agent Barton." 

"Hey, Boss. Got a minute?" Clint asks, looking up with a lopsided smile but it doesn't fool Phil, not anymore. Clint looks like he's slept like shit or not at all. Which, knowing him, he probably has. Phil has seen the way the younger agent sleeps or doesn't sleep when they shared a room on missions. Sadly, it is quite common for him, but Clint always manages. 

"Yes, of course. Thanks for the coffee, by the way. Oh" Phil adds, feeling an excited little spark at the sight of a big blueberry muffin near his mug, but manages to stay professional.

"Thanks for that, too. Is everything okay?" he asks then, because while it isn't unusual for Clint to start his day by entering Phil's locked office to start coffee and hang out a bit while they do paperwork or discuss work related things, it's not often that he seeks him out with anything particular to talk about. At least not unless anything happened, which, as far as Phil is aware, wasn't the case. It's their first day back in the office after the latest mission that lead to the baking marathon. 

Clint hums into his mug, then considers his words. 

"Yeah, I'm fine. So uh, I'd like to get an apartment off base and I was going to ask if you could help me. With the forms and all that?" he asks and doesn't sound nearly as awkward as he'd thought he would. Thank fuck. 

"Yes, absolutely. Did you have anywhere specific in mind?" Phil asks, opening a drawer on his desk to get the correct form for them to fill out so they can file it as soon as possible. 

"No, not really. Well, I don't feel like traveling through half of New York to get here in the morning but other than that… Just some place quiet with walls that are thicker than rice paper." he adds with a small smile and Phil nods, corner of his mouth quirking upward.

He remembers the on-base apartments from his early days and he doesn't miss it one bit. He only sleeps there if absolutely necessary and is quite impressed that Barton managed to stay there for over two years without murdering anyone. Phil moved the hell out of there as soon as he collected a few decent pay checks and managed to afford it. 

"I'm sure we can figure something out. Let's start here…" 

*~+ 

Clint is equal parts excited and overwhelmed. He's never had this much space to call his own, and he feels a bit childish and stupid about how much this makes him feel, but thankfully, he's on his own here. No one around to witness his small breakdown over two rooms, a balcony and a real fucking good kitchen. It's enormous and he can't wait to get his hands on it to stock it with everything he needs, now that he's got space. 

With Phil's help, he'd found a two-room apartment in Manhattan. It's much, much nicer than anything he's ever lived in before and part of him doesn't want to touch anything, afraid of messing it up. The other, excited part of him has ordered Ikea furniture online and spent most of the day assembling it in his new space, coffee already brewing when Phill showed up on his doorstep, wearing jeans and a flannel shirt instead of his usual black suit. That almost stops Clint in his tracks because his brain is starting to slowly catch up because holy fucking shit, he looks  _ good _ . 

Phil also brought tools and a six-pack of coke. That alone is one of the reasons why Clint likes him so much. He'd not only offered and provided much more help and he deserves, he's also made sure to think about the fact that Clint doesn't like alcohol and doesn't ever drink it unless he's undercover and needs to blend in. Most people would have dropped off beer on moving day. But Phil didn't, because he pays attention. 

'Don't fall in love you hopeless dumbass' Clint thinks to himself, but the heart wants what the heart wants. Well shit. Better keep that to himself. 

When all is done that night and they spend it on the newly assembled couch with Pizza and drinks. It's not unusual for them so share spaces like this, but this feels a bit different somehow. They're close to each other, close enough for legs and elbows to touch on occasion. It should be uncomfortable, being this close to another person but Clint doesn't feel anything but tired, happy and comfortable after a day of work. 

Phil leaves around 11 that night, walking the two blocks to his own apartment and thanking Clint for the pizza (he'd insisted on buying as a thank you for helping him spending the day neck deep in Swedish furniture). When he's on his own again, Clint takes his time to walk around the place, carefully running his hands over everything. It still feels a little bit surreal to him, having all of  _ this _ . 

Clint is wide awake, and he knows he won’t be able to sleep that night. So he starts another pot of coffee and spends hours in the kitchen, producing several sheets of oat and raisin cookies, mango-vanilla and chocolate-mocha cupcakes, as well as a batch of thick and fluffy cinnamon rolls. When finally, 6 am rolls around, Clint has left the kitchen, wiped down and clean, to hop into the shower. Then, he snags one of the cinnamon rolls for himself, pours coffee into a travel cup and makes his way to the New York SHIELD office.

When Phil arrives at work this day, he finds a brewing pot of coffee in the corner and a big plastic container on his desk, but Clint is nowhere to be seen. Curiously, Phil steps closer to check what no doubt mouth watering treat waits for him inside of the box. Stuck to the lid is, for the first time ever, a small note. It’s hastily scrawled onto a purple sticky note, and it’s only two words, but Phil smiles widely when he reads it.

_ Thank you. _

*+~

No matter how much they plan and prepare, sometimes a mission just goes ass over teakettle in a matter of seconds. 

One moment, literally nothing happens and Clint is chatting to Phil over the comms to keep himself awake. He’s been in his perch for roughly 48 hours and watching the goons play cards and pick their noses in boredom. Literally nothing else happens for two days, and Clint is quietly bitching about it over the comms while fighting the urge to rip his own hair out. Then, their mark shows up but before Coulson can even give a kill order, all hell breaks loose. Nothing prepares anybody for the chaos that ensues, and suddenly there are panicked shouts and then something explodes, sending wood and stones and people flying, while flames quickly eat their way further through the scene.

People from both sides of the law are scrambling to get to safety. Clint is running and yelling “Explosion! Get out, get out!” over the comms, loud enough for there to be a nasty backslash of the sound. The agents who just entered the building to collect the necessary information, now that the mark has left the room where it’s located, turn on their heels to get the hell out but Clint can’t make out their answer if there even is any, and he feverishly hopes it won’t be too late. 

There is a stabbing pain in his upper body and his ears are ringing, blood dripping from his head and into his eyes. He can’t see very well, even for someone with his vision, and the dull sound filling his head prevents him from hearing anything over the comms. Clint doesn’t waste any time in trying to find out what the hell is happening. He just keeps running, as he can feel the blaze of heat is close to his back, tinting everything into a reddish light and rapidly spreading out.

In front of him, he can make out vaguely human figures, and with his vision still impaired, he can only hope that they’re SHIELD. But he never finds out, because the next thing he knows is that, a piece of ceiling breaks down under the fire and yanks him down to the floor, and everything is pain. 

Thankfully, he passes out very soon.

When he wakes up, he does so in a white room that smells of hospital, because it  _ is _ a hospital. Oh, Fuck.

Clint groans, trying to get his eyesight to clear up from the swimming mess that it currently is, trying to shift himself up into a sitting position and get the hell out of here if possible, but his body screams at him in protest, so he falls back down vocalizes,

“Ow, fuck.”

“Don’t move too much, Barton. You’re safe. No need to get up and injure yourself any further.”

The dry, calm tone of the voice he’d know anywhere makes him smile a little.

“Hey, Boss. What happened?” he asks, in an attempt fill in his very spotty memory of the last mission. Phil patiently explains. The unforeseen leak in the plan, the explosion, the fire. That Clint got hit with debris and suffered second- and third degree burns form it, as well as broken bones and other tissue injuries. He’ll have to stay in medical for quite a few weeks, and at home after that, but the doctors say he’ll probably be okay after it all - it’s just a lot at once that his body will have to deal with.

Clint nods along to the explanation, fragments of memories slowly returning while Phil is filling out the gaps for him - he looks tired and unusually disheveled, suit rumpled and dark beard stubble all over his cheeks.

“What about you, Sir? Are you okay? You look a bit- uhm.” he cuts himself off.

“Lot’s to do with the aftermath of this. And I was waiting for updates about your status, so there’s that.” Phil runs one hand over his gaunt face. “I’m fine. Glad you woke up, too.”

This last statement moves something in Clint. He’s still not used to somebody caring about him on a personal level.

“Thank you for not leaving me behind. and I’m sorry I fucked up. Couldn’t get a shot in time.” he says quietly, and Phil’s face moves from a small smile to a frown.

“You didn’t fuck anything up. You made sure that you and everyone else got out in time to survive the explosion. That’s the most important thing for now. Another team will get the mark. None of this is your fault, Clint.” He locks eyes with him, and it feels strangely intimate. “I will always have your back and I will always and come get you.”

Phil doesn’t utter the word “promise” but this is very much what it is. 

Clint just keeps up the eye contact for a few more moments, then exhaustion pulls him back to sleep. He is on pretty strong medication, and it mostly keeps him under, at least for a for a while. 

The length of time he can stay awake increases over the days and weeks, and the day he can leave medical, Phil picks him up and helps him enter the car before he gets behind the wheel and turns over to Clint. 

“If it is okay with you, I’d like to stop at your place to help you pack some things and then we’ll get over to my apartment. You wouldn’t be alone all the time and I can help you when you need it.” Phil states, and Clint considers it for a moment. But the small, mean voice in the back of his head keeps whispering  _ “useless”  _ and  _ “You’re a burden” _ so he answers,

“You don’t have to. I’ll be fine.”

“I know I don’t have to. It’s an offer, and it’s not a chore. Unless this makes you uncomfortable?”

“No, no. I- I trust you. Just don’t want to invade your space for so long.” he says, still giving Phil an out of this if he wants it. They have grown closer over the time, and although neither of them would hesitate to call the other “friend” by now, this is… Different. Never mind the romantic feelings that Clint is still stupidly developing. Spending time with Phil sounds amazing, but on the other hand, this won’t help him ignore his crush on him _ at all. _

“It’s no bother at all. You’ll heal faster with the help, and believe it or not, but I actually enjoy your company. So, the offer is there if you want it.”

“Okay, then. Thanks, Phil.” He shoots him a quick, but grateful smile and his heart is beating faster, so he looks away, watching the city of New York fly past the window as they head to their destination.

*+~

Living together, even if temporarily, is neither new or awkward to them. Over the years, they have spent so much time together out on OPs, in safehouses, and around each other both on and off the clock, they’re like a well-oiled unit together. 

Still, living together at Phil’s place is kind of new at least, and it sends a spark of longing through Clint but he shoves it right back down. It’s no use. So he ignores it, and does what he needs to do in order to heal up. Which is mostly taking it easy, resting and showing up for his PT sessions. 

Recovery bores him out of his mind though, and Clint is indeed very happy to see Phil in the mornings and evenings, spending weekends together. They talk about anything and nothing, share quiet time together when Phil is doing paperwork he’s brought home. He leaves SHIELD way earlier than he usually would, and Clint is well aware that he’s doing that for his benefit. It’s still new, but it makes him incredibly happy, to know someone cares this much about him.

Another thing is, Clint has always had trouble sleeping. Phil knows this, intimately well, from sharing spaces and occasionally beds with him when they’re out in the field together. In the first few years, Clint would leave the room whenever possible, either trying to get his mind off of it while doing something else, or, when he couldn’t hold back for any longer, to hide in some place small and safe to quietly deal with his overboiling emotions. 

Later, when Clint trusts him enough to let him, Phil helps him calm down, talking to him for hours on end, staying however close Clint would need or let him at the time. In the last few years, he’s even started to accept physical contact as a form of comfort. Sometimes, when he’s in a really bad place, he’ll even ask for it, non-verbal but very, very clear in the way he’ll lean close to Phil and hold onto him. Phil always hugs back, holding him close and secure, never pushing, never pulling away, never saying anything about tears or fragments of personal information that escape him in moments like these. He’ll simply reassure him that he’s safe, the no one is here to watch and that he’s got him. It’s okay. And in the end, it always is. 

After the mission that left him with the injuries he’s currently healing from, Clint is suffering from even more nightmares than usual. This is another reason Phil had offered him to stay with him, but he knows that flat out mentioning that probably wouldn’t go over too well, no matter how much Clint trusts him.

So, they spend many nights together as well, and it works out like it always does.

It’s those nights that Clint realizes just how touch starved he really is. Those nights, as emotionally painful as they may be, he is happy to find a bit of relief, and, most importantly, he knows that it is possible to be close to another person without having to sleep with them in order to get it.

Although, another, increasingly growing part of his brain lets him know, in this particular case he wouldn’t mind that at all. Or, he wouldn’t mind it if he wasn’t so terrified of losing Phil as a friend if that happened. 

So he doesn’t say anything, just burrows his face in Phils soft shirt whenever he can, and hopes that at least this won’t be ripped away from him one day. 

On a brighter note, Clint has also taken up on learning how to knit. Usually, he’d take over the kitchen and turn it into a non-licenced bakery, but as it is now, he’s not supposed to walk or stand for too long. So, he browsed the internet and sent a quick e-mail to Phil, asking if he could pick up a few things for him at the store on his way home. That evening, he receives a bag with several, colourful balls of yarn, different sizes of knitting needles and a bright smile from Phil, and when he asks how much he owed him, Phil just waves him off and dumps the contents of his other bag, boxes of chinese take-out food, onto the table and asks how Clint’s day has been. 

So, the next few weeks Clint spends working in turns on either a scarf, a patchwork blanket, or a pair of red, blue and white socks with a little star at the ankles. He’s well aware of Phil’s adorable fanboy crush on Captain America, and, one evening, presents the socks to him with a lopsided grin and gets the brightest smile and warmest “thank you” in response. He can’t help the blush that creeps up onto his cheeks, but _ Phil is blushing too _ , goddammit, and he happily wears the socks that evening (and many after for years on end until they're starting to fall apart) when they share the couch. They’re leaning against each other without even thinking, Clint knitting and chatting away about the latest episodes of crap TV he’s been watching because “where do they even find those people willing to humiliate themselves on national TV?!” and Phil laughs along, and informs him over the latest gossip from the office. 

It’s the happiest Clint has felt in… Maybe ever, he can’t even remember. He’s even happier when he slowly but surely gets better, and is finally able and allowed to walk and move around and finally being able to do so without his crutches, for longer periods of time. 

So naturally, one evening Phil opens the door to his apartment and is greeted with the mouth watering smell of baking (boston cream pie cupcakes and fudgy brownies, he’ll find out later). There is also the sound of his kitchen radio turned to a country station with Clint singing along, and it makes Phil smile in an instant, because it feels so right and so domestic. 

He’s _ loved  _ coming home in the last few weeks, and it has been a long time since he’s felt like that. Phil no longer comes into an empty, dark and cold apartment. Now, there is the presence of another human being. Now, his home is filled with warmth and light and on days like today, even the heavenly scent of home made food and the very,  _ very _ decent singing of Clint.

Phil would never admit that he takes his time in taking off his shoes and coat, deliberately waiting to go into the kitchen because he enjoys listening, enjoys soaking up this feeling of somebody’s company in his own space. He also just likes to listen to Clint’s singing because he's got a great voice and Phil is secretly afraid that he will stop if he notices that Phil is here, but he wouldn’t have had to worry.

Clint just turns slightly when he notices movement in the doorway and he’s carrying a steaming hot tray across the kitchen to the rhythm of the music, calls out a cheerful, “Hi, Phil!” and then continues his little performance like nobody is watching or listening. 

Phil can feel his heart almost exploding in his chest with happiness and, dare he think it,  _ love _ .

The two of them are friends. Best friends, even. It’s more than Phil ever thought or hoped would be possible with Clint, but he’s come such a long way since he started at SHIELD almost 5 years ago. He’s much more comfortable than before, both with himself and the people around him. He trusts a small handful of them. Most of all Phil, which he knows too well. 

It’s one of the reasons why he’s very hesitant in making a move in the direction of anything romantic, because he doesn’t know if it would be welcome. Phil doesn’t want to break this hard earned trust, so unless Clint let’s him know otherwise, he’s not going to say or do anything about it. He’d much rather swallow his feelings and keep a friend than losing both Clint and his trust in him, both in and out of the field. He values him way too much for that. 

By the time Clint is healed up enough to go back home and on light duty, both of them have gotten so used to each other that spending their separate lives at their own apartments feels kind of odd, and neither of them wants to think too much about this fact, because so far, both of them are successfully hiding their mutual romantic feelings for each other. 

So they take to spending most evenings at either one of their places taking turns, and if they wouldn’t try so hard to ignore their growing affections for each other, they would have realized that they’re practically already dating.

*+~

Time is a funny thing. One moment, Clint just returned to full active duty,  _ finally _ , and one blink of an eye later 8 months have passed and he returns back to base in a battered plane, with Phil by his side and the Black Widow on his other - he’s pretty sure that his assessment of her has been correct, and kind of happy that he was able and allowed to spare her life. Things might be difficult at the start, but they soon realize that it is the right decision, and so does Director Fury, even when some parts of the agency are on the fence about that.

The results and success of Strike Team Delta speak for themselves, though.

One day, Clint is getting his ass handed to him by Natasha on the sparring mats. Nothing unusual there, because she’s good and even though he is one of SHIELD’s top agents himself, she could snap him in half if she really wanted to. So naturally, he adores her and takes every opportunity he can get to learn more. The two of them quickly form a friendship, and Natasha warms up faster than anyone would have thought. Mostly to Clint and Phil, because she knows and trusts them the most, but still.

“So, you and Coulson. How long have you been dating?” she asks while casually throwing Clint over her shoulder even though he’s taller and heavier by quite a bit.

“Huh?” he asks as he get’s back up and into fighting stance. “We don't.” he answers lamely, hoping the scarlet red on his face can be blamed on the fact that they’ve been sparing for over an hour and not his stupid little crush. (Little though? Not so much but he’s not getting into that, not even in the privacy of his own head)

Natasha lifts one perfect eyebrow at him.

“Oh?” She shrugs. “Could have fooled me.”

They leave it at that, but Clint can’t get this conversation out of his head. He’d love for there to be more than friendship between him and Phil, but he’s terrified of messing up what they have right now. It’s too good to be true already, and he doesn’t want to risk it. 

Natasha doesn’t ask again, but Clint can feel her watching him and Phil. He’s pretty sure she doesn’t believe his statement about them not dating. His only grace is that she’s even more socially awkward than him though, so there’s that. 

A little while later, the three of them are crammed onto a tiny sofa in an equally tiny safe house in North Dakota, shoulders pressed together as they scarf down peanut butter bars that Clint quickly threw together that morning and the TV is running with a super bowl match. Neither of them is particularly interested in the sport itself, but they have joined the betting pool back at home in the office, so they want to catch it and mercifully, they have a day and a half to kill until their ride home arrives. 

Phil has one arm wrapped around Clint, who sits pressed close to him with Natasha half on his lap because this couch really isn’t constructed for three people but neither of them cares. It’s cozy and comfortable, and they have fun spending a bit of down time together. 

The three of them work well together. Their success rate within the agency is one of a kind, even though they’re one of the smallest teams. 

When they get assigned with other teams or agents, these people are, more often than not, convinced that the Agents Coulson, Barton and Romanoff communicate via telepathy instead of comm units, and even then, sometimes all they need is calling each others names in a certain tone of voice to indicate that something is happening. It’s equal parts scary and fascinating to watch. 

One lazy weekend where all three of them are free, Clint has taken over Phil’s kitchen once again. He starts out with making lemon curd from scratch right after breakfast, and spends the time while it’s cooling to make some more of his infamous salted caramel cookies - those have Phil close to proposing marriage, all the complicated feelings be damned. 

He can feel Natasha’s curious look prickling in his neck as he’s watching Clint from his spot on the kitchen table, munching on one of the cookies with a no doubt besotted look on his face because he’s off the clock and surrounded by friends and life is good to them for once. He doesn’t care. 

Clint then proceeds to work with the lemon curd, from which he’s separated two dessert bowls because  _ certain someone's  _ keep stealing spoonfuls of it. As soon as he's turned his back, they’re at it, like two overgrown children. Natasha and Phil are a force to be reckoned with when it comes to having a major sweet tooth, especially together. Clint doesn’t mind, because it means that whatever he makes will get eaten and appreciated. And he makes a lot. Sweet, savory, bake and no-bake. Even cooking, which he’s taken up quite a bit, lately. Anything that keeps his hands busy when he needs to do something that isn’t destructive. 

Today, Clint turns the curd into a lemon cheesecake and takes his sweet ass time decorating it. They devour parts of it after dinner, and when Natasha leaves to go home, she does so with three more pieces of it wrapped in tin foil, smiling a real, happy smile as she hugs both of them good night. 

Clint throws himself back onto Phil’s couch after that, and they start a movie while sitting close together - unnecessarily close for just two of them on a fairly spacious couch. But it’s cozy and comfortable, and later that night, Clint nods off with his head on leaned Phil’s shoulder. He lets him sleep, keeping half his attention on the movie, until he falls asleep, too. 

The next morning, Phil and Clint wake up in the living room, sunlight slowly filtering through the windows and they’re wrapped tightly around each other. 

They don’t talk about it after, since it's hardly the first time they fell asleep together. It's not even the first time they've been cuddling, but it is the first time that they've really, properly been cuddling just because and not in an attempt to comfort one another or just to keep warm. 

It's the best night’s sleep either of them has gotten in a long time. 

*+~

Despite pretty much being a package deal these days, on occasion, Strike Team Delta get’s sent out on separate missions. 

Natasha has spent about a month in russia so far, only with very limited contact to SHIELD. She’s taken up on sending private messages to Phil and Clint, disguised as spam e-mails. Clint’s personal favourite had been an offer for certain cosmetic surgery procedures of private body parts, consisting of several bad puns that had him under a table with howling laughter. 

It is, however, a very effective way of communication, because who even opens these kinds of junk mails? So they know that she’s mostly fine, aware that she can’t share any sensitive information, although the fact that she can construct these messages mean that she’s probably not being watched  _ all _ the time.

Then, Clint get’s called out with Sitwell’s team. They get along fine, and the mission is mostly successful. If you can call a mission successful that ends with secure intel, a dead drug cartel boss and two unconscious and handcuffed goons in the back of a van, even when two agents return to the home base with either a broken arm or twisted ankle.

Of fucking course, Clint manages to mess up his left arm. The one he shoots with and uses for most everyday things. He’s more annoyed than anything, because it benches him for active duty.  _ Again. _

When he returns back to base, he escapes from medical as soon as he can and makes his way up to Phil’s office to bitch to him about it. But when he arrives, he finds the office locked and empty, and soon finds out that Phil got called out last minute because a situation got very hot very fast and they needed someone who can handle it without panicking.

So, Clint doesn’t expect to hear from Phil for a few days at least. He does, however, get a text from Phil at 11:30 the following night, asking if he’s awake and if it’s okay if he comes over?

It worries Clint, because Phil has never asked like this before, so it must be serious. Clint types a reply with his right hand, as quickly as he can, telling Phil to get over here. Then, he starts a pot of coffee because if nothing else, it’ll keep them awake and warm.

When he opens his door about half an hour later, Phil looks like shit. He’s limping a bit, and holding his side carefully enough that Clint thinks he probably broke a few ribs. Most of all though, the haunted look in his eyes is what worries Clint the most. He pushes a mug of coffee in his hands, and they share several minutes of silence, just sharing the space and Phil slumps against Clint, remaining there. Clint has his good arm wrapped around him, slowly rubbing the spot on his upper arm where his hand rests. 

“Phil, what happened?” he breaks the silence, keeping his voice low and even. It takes a while to get an answer, and Phil just shakes his head before he answers.

“Two agents died yesterday. I miscalculated the situation, and now they’re dead.” He sounds hollow and dead inside, but his eyes tell a different story. He’s absolutely heartbroken about it.

It’s his job to keep track of situations, to keep his agents safe. He cares for all of them, wants them not only safe and alive but also as happy, comfortable and well-fed as the mission parameters allow. He _ cares _ , on a human level that is very rare amongst SHIELD’s higher up’s.

Some certain, lucky agents, he cares even more about on a personal level.

It’s one of the reasons why Clint trusts and loves him so much. 

Phil spends a lot of time planning and calculating these situations, talking through them with the team as much as possible, to cover every little detail, every little “what if”. Because when Phil Coulson makes a mistake, people die or at the very least get hurt. One mistake he makes can cost a family a mother or a father, a brother or a sister. One of his mistakes can cost a person their loved one, their rock they hold onto. 

This is why Phil works so much and so hard, to avoid these mistakes at all costs.

But they still happen sometimes, and then he has to live with the guilt and responsibility.

Clint knows all of this. So he doesn’t offer any platitudes, doesn’t object when Phil says, “This is my fault.”

He simply pulls him into his arms and sits with him through the grief, wishing there was anything more he could do to help him. But as it is, they spend the next few hours on the couch, carefully minding each others injuries while they’re wrapped around each other and Clint runs his right hand through Phils dark brown hair in an attempt to comfort him.

Phil stays with him for the rest of the night and the two following days, simply because he doesn’t want to be alone and because Clint flat out refuses to leave him alone and let him go home on his own in this state of mind. After all, he knows what it feels like to have blood on his hands, intentional and not intentional. 

*+~

Clint is  _ covered _ from head to toe in flour and melted chocolate when Natasha enters his apartment after an uneventful day on the helicarrier. He’s spent most of the day in his kitchen, because Fury had been up his ass about overtime and taking a day or two off for  _ months _ now. So, he’s spent the free time making cookie dough truffles, s’mores brownies and chocolate cream horns, and Natasha takes in the mess, wiping a bit of chocolate off of Clint’s face and stealing a truffle from the counter. 

“How’s work?” he asks, and Natasha smirks knowingly, and fills him in on the office gossip of the day. They hang out and talk shit about their co-workers while Clint starts on yet another recipe, and Natasha snags pieces of ingredients to snack on, ignoring every single one of Clint’s complaints because she  _ knows _ he always counts the stolen parts in, out of sheer habit because he’s baking around her and Phil so often. 

The evening is still young when they get a call from Phil. They need to come in ASAP. 

*~+

Looking back, Clint wouldn't be able to tell everything that happened. He knows the mission parameters, knows the key points, even knows exactly how and when things took a turn in the wrong direction. He knows roughly how and when they were taken captive and what happened in the warehouse.

Clint has no memory about them stabbing his ear drums and this bothers him, because shouldn’t he be able to recall this, when every word spoken and gory details from the rest have burned themselves into his brain?

It leaves nothing but a blank. 

He remembers pain and blood and taunting their captors, hoping they’ll keep their attention on him so they’ll leave the other agents alone, remembers Phil trying to do exactly the same, looking at him with a desperate, warning look in his eyes that clearly says “please just shut the hell up and don’t antagonize them even more” but he knows it’s useless because he knows that Clint will not let other people get hurt when he can take their place. It’s one of the very few things they have frequent disagreements about, because Phil would very much like for Clint to stay in one piece if it's possible. 

Clint remembers blood and pain and desperation, and then a duller, darker pain and feeling like he’s under water. But he’s not, nothing around him has changed, except the world has grown silent and distant even when there’s people screaming around him. His throat hurts, like he’s been screaming, too, but he doesn’t remember that, either. 

Things get fuzzy after this, and when Clint wakes up again, he’s in a bright and white hospital room. There are machines blinking around him, people walking in and out of the room, talking to him and no doubt about him - he doesn’t hear anything at all. It’s because of the thick bandages around his head, he keeps telling himself to ease the anxiety, but deep down he knows that’s not the case. He fears the day when they will come off because then, he will no longer to be able to try and convince himself that these fucking bastards didn’t take away whatever was left of his ability to hear. 

Phil is there to see him every day, and so is Natasha. They stay with him and write little notes to communicate, some of which he verbally answers, some he ignores completely. 

Doctors say that the damage is permanent this time. 

When his hearing first got damaged all those years ago when Dad was drunk, it mostly returned over time. Now, however, it nearly doesn’t and leaves him with a much, much smaller percentage intact. Healing takes a while, and by the time he’s well enough to be fitted for hearing aids at the ripe old age of 31, he’s left medical to hide out in his apartment and isolate himself from the world as much as he can.

Both Phil and Natasha have offered to stay with him, or have him come over for a while, but he always declines, even though he appreciates the offers. He appreciates them more than he has words for, but he still chooses to stay home on his own, not wanting to burden anyone while he figures out life with hearing loss and a whole new set of nightmares to deal with. 

Nat texts and threatens to kick down his door, so he types a half hearted reply to let her know he’s still alive, even if not well. He doesn’t say that last part though. Natasha still shows up with two boxes of Pizza and a DVD in her hands, shoving him onto the couch and starting the movie with closed captions and not leaving his side for the rest of the night. He falls asleep with his head on her shoulder, crouched down in a way that makes his neck and back hurt like hell when he wakes up the next day, but it’s the best night’s sleep he’s gotten since that OP that fucked everything up. 

Clint is still on medical leave, partly because he won’t talk to any of the shrinks assigned to him. They’ve had this dance before. It’s an uncomfortable routine by now and he’s a master at it. 

He thinks about getting his own doctor to talk to, someone with no ties to SHIELD but he doesn’t have the energy to do anything about it. That, and he doesn’t touch his phone unless he uses it to text back to Phil or Natasha. 

Damned, useless fucking thing. 

Hearing aids take a lot of tuning and getting used to - half the time, he doesn’t wear them at all. Sometimes, the paranoia kicks in and he’ll scramble to get them, pacing his apartment on high alert for hours on end. Other days, he’s too tired to deal with them and just leaves them out, even though he knows they’re supposed to help him. 

It’s been a busy week for everybody else, and Clint doesn’t hear much from anyone, doesn’t reach out and keeps himself busy with monkey bread, lemon cookies and peanut blossoms. His kitchen is a mess, but so is he. Clint is covered in flour and crusty bits of dough, hair limp and unwashed. There are dark circles under his eyes, too much stubble on his cheeks. It’s been too long since he’s slept, but lately, he’s alternating between staying in bed all the time, sleeping however much he can in between nightmares and keeping himself busy and awake over the course of too many days. 

Today, he’s on his third day of no sleep and it shows. Clint is jumpy, anxious and on the edge. It’s one of those days where, if he starts to think for too long, he’ll just  _ stop _ entirely, staring right through the wall while tearing up without noticing or caring about it. 

He burns the fucking bread.

The smoky smell coming from the oven rises him out of his funk - cursing, he tries to salvage whatever is possible but it’s turned rock hard and black like charcoal. He dumps the scalding hot pan into the sink, spewing another string of profanity. A blinking, red light over his head tells him that his smoke alarm is going off, but he can’t make out it’s sound. 

"Fuck!" He wants to kick something. 

Better replace the smoke detector, because it’ll be useless to him now that he might not even notice it until it's too late. Another responsibility, why didn’t he think of it sooner? 

“Stupid”, the mean little voice in the back of his head hisses, “Useless.”. It’s a well known mantra by now.

Clint takes in the mess around him, dead on his feet and emotions bubbling up. He just sits down in the middle of the cold tile floor, staring ahead into the open, cooling but stinking oven and doesn’t do anything about it.

There are vibrations on the floor - footsteps, probably. Clint startles badly but when he is halfway up and about to grab a kitchen knife he realizes that there is no threat because his visitor is by no means a burglar. The face that appears in his field of vision is very much friendly and familiar - Phil has one hand stretches out, the universal, peaceful gesture for ‘It’s just me, I won’t hurt you.’ and his lips are forming something along the lines of, 

“I’m sorry.” and “I didn’t mean to scare you.” Then, to Clint’s great surprise, he finger-spells “w-o-r-r-i-e-d a-b-o-u-t y-o-u”. He spells it slowly and just the tiniest bit clumsy, but very clear nonetheless.

Clint blinks at him. He doesn’t know what he expected, but it’s not this.

He used to be fluent in ASL, back when he was a child and his brother had stolen books from the library for them to learn it together. After the “accident”, it was a necessary relief and frequent way of communication, but he hasn’t actively used it in decades. But he remembers. He’ll always remember. 

“You sign?” Clint asks sheepishly and looks at Phil like he’s never seen him before.

“I’m learning. Maybe you can help me get better?” Phil replies, and just as slowly as before, spells out individual words to make sure that Clint knows what he’s trying to tell him, and even though he doesn’t say it, it is obvious that he’s doing this  _ for him. _

It’s the last straw of the day and Clint feels incredibly stupid, but he hasn’t slept in far too long, he’s overwhelmed and he can’t stop himself from cracking open. One second, he just stares, then he’s sobbing on the same cold and dirty spot on his kitchen floor. In a matter of seconds, Phil is by his side, both arms securely wrapped around him in an protective embrace. He’s not leaving his side and he's slowly, gently stroking his hair. Clint feels emotionally drained, but also just a little bit loved. 

He has no clear memory of how he got to his couch, but he ended up here somehow, buried under a blanket, with a warm and familiar presence next to and arms still wrapped around him. Right, Phil is here. He probably came in with the spare key, which he’s had pretty much ever since Clint moved into the place all those years ago. Phil said he’s worried about him, which is probably fair. The rest of the night begins to creep back into his mind, but the gentle hand is still running through his hair and he leans into the touch, soaking it up like a sponge. 

Clint tightens his hold and falls back asleep for a little while.

As the day starts again sometime around noon, they share a pot of coffee and mostly silence.

Clint is a lot more rested than before, but he’s still thinking too much. Phil stays close to him, offering comfort and company. Somehow, he manages to get him to eat a bit and even shower but it is a slow process. By the time he’s done, Clint is exhausted and slumps sideways against Phil, who just lets him, pulling him close with enough space for him to get away should he wish to. 

Maybe it’s the fatigue, maybe it’s his thoughts running wild. Maybe it’s the fact that Clint can’t hear himself talk, or the fact that he has known that he feels this way for years now. But he exhales, slowly, and then he turns to look Phil in the eyes as he blurts out,

“I love you.”

It’s a simple statement, no long explanation or declaration. But it holds so much truth, and it’s simultaneously the scariest and most beautiful thing he’s ever said out loud. Phil blinks, eyes wide, and he seems to be at a loss for words for a moment. But then he replies,

“I love you, too.”

He says the words out loud, and when Clint stares back like a deer in the headlights, he signs it back - not spelled out, like the previous night, but the full, proper sign. It means the world to him, and Clint smiles, small but honest and happy, even in this chaos of complicated feelings and a few stray tears escaping him. Phil gently wipes them away, and he smiles back.

“We can talk about this once you’re in a better headspace, okay? But I’m here, for as long as you want me to, and I love you. Very much.” he offers, and yes those absolutely are agreeable terms for Clint, and he says as much. 

“To be honest I’m a bit of a mess right now, but I mean it. I really do love you. So, talking later would be a good idea.” he admits, and they’re on the same page. 

There is time and they simply share the space, share their body heat and hold onto each other. 

Phil bends forwards to press a kiss into Clint’s dirty blond hair, and he happily leans into it, practically melting into the touch. He’s finally starting to relax a little bit more, lightly running calloused hands over the soft fabric of the back of Phil’s shirt. 

He can feel the muscles and the warmth under his fingertips and the familiar scent of a woodsy, fresh perfume in his nose that he couldn't name but easily recognize anywhere put him at ease. He’s burrowed into Phil, like a hundred times before, but it's still  _ different  _ now and it’s just right. They are wrapped around each other, legs tangled and arms slung around waists and shoulders in a blissful cocoon of warmth.

Clint thinks, that this is what home truly feels like and even though his life is even more of a dumpster fire than usual, he also has hope that things might finally turn out okay for him - he’s not alone. 

And that’s enough to keep him going, enough to face the mess and slowly start sorting it out. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


*+~

**Prompt No. 9 - Stress baking**

**Author's Note:**

> I made a pinterest board with the stuff that Clint bakes in this story, because  
> 1) I needed a bit of inspiration  
> 2) writing this made me hungry  
> 3) I'm not some kind of awful person that would leave my readers craving the stuff mentioned with no idea how to make it ;) 
> 
> https://www.pinterest.de/annibanashee2/clint-barton-stress-baking-fanfiction/


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